


Hunting for distractions

by Kizzia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Easter, Easter Eggs, Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock and John's relationship can be read how you want, a sort of case fic, without the case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it’s not the treasure that’s the real prize, it’s the hunt itself. Occasionally, if you’re really lucky, it’s both.</p><p>Otherwise known as the story in which John plays at being the Easter bunny (metaphorically speaking, although please don’t let me stop you imagining John dressed in a bunny suit if you wish to) and Sherlock is reminded that you don’t always need a crime to have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set the first Easter after Sherlock has returned from the dead and can be read as pre-slash, established Johnlock or canonical bromance – it’s completely up to you.
> 
>  
> 
> _Please note that if you download this in either mobi or epub format the pictures won't transfer, which will be confusing to a degree. If you download it in pdf, however, the pictures remain embedded in the text._

John settles himself on the stool at the end of the bar-like table overlooking Charing Cross Road, flips open the book he’s just bought and takes an appreciative sip of his coffee. It’s relatively quiet in Foyle’s cafe, mainly because it’s half two on a Wednesday, but it could have been heaving and John would still have revelled in every minute; because here there are no raucous squeals from tortured violin strings, no thuds, thumps or noxious smells from inexplicable experimentation and nor are the less than dulcet tones of his landlady scraping across his abused ear drums.

Not that he blames Mrs Hudson for shouting, mind you. He’d been on the brink of yelling too when she’d come in and discovered, as he had just ten minutes earlier, that Sherlock had taken it into his head to peel off samples of every single type of wallpaper in the place - not neatly either, it looked as if a lunatic armed with a box cutter had been at the walls - and perform some form of chemical analysis on each one. Bad enough on it’s own, to be sure, but add to that the smell emanating from the test tubes (a delightful scent that makes yesterdays experiment - something that, revoltingly, had involved sulphur and bat guano - seem like the heights of perfumery) and it was unsurprising even the most tolerant landlady in the western hemisphere had lost her cool. 

Not that Sherlock noticed either Mrs Hudson’s wrath or John’s departure, too wrapped up in his own misery to take note of the actions of the mere mortals he happens to be sharing a living space with.  The last two weeks of enforced inactivity, thanks to a singular lack of cases or any other suitable distractions for the first time since Sherlock returned to 221B, has really taken its toll. In particular, the last five days have been excruciating as Sherlock hasn’t even bothered to get dressed, never mind think about leaving the house. Add to that a refusal to answer John at all - other than to grunt when toast or tea are presented to him, the increasingly random (and destructive) experimentation and the now nightly rant at 2 am - at full volume - about the weak-minded, ineffectual nature of London’s criminal populous, and the prognosis is not looking good.

Staring blindly out of the window, book long since abandoned, John racks his brains for something, _anything_ , he hasn’t already tried that might get Sherlock out of his funk. He knows shouting is no use whatsoever, however tempting it is, and that cajoling, begging and pleading aren’t going to help either but he’s almost ready to try them anyway. The old standby of walking round London deducing people at random has already be soundly rebuffed, as has the offer of taking Sherlock to the shooting range and letting him take out his frustrations on some defenceless little clays. God, John’s even taken to spending several hours each morning scouring the papers and internet for anything that might point towards something vaguely mysterious he might tempt Sherlock with. All he’s got for his pains so far are two dismissive hand gestures and one set of tortured ear drums; courtesy of the much abused violin.

When he finds himself wishing, as a fire engine closely followed by an ambulance wail their way down the road, that there’s been an inexplicable fire set by a fiendishly clever arsonist attempting to cover up a murder committed by his long lost twin brother (who no-one knows exists) because an obscure code in an ancient scroll told him to, he shakes his head, wonders if there’s any hope for either his soul or his sanity, and reaches for his book again.

Only his eye is caught by the garish advert splashed all over the T K Maxx opposite and he shudders despite himself; how an Easter bunny that looks as if it’s tripping on meth is supposed to entice people into the store he has no idea. The next window is worse; the bunny (if such a term can be applied to something that looks as if it eats foxes rather than carrots) shown hiding behind a bush, holding a basket of eggs, and wearing a grin and deranged expression worthy of the Joker. _God_ , John thinks, shaking his head in vague despair, _that’s more likely to put children off the idea of an Easter egg hunt altogether than ....That’s it!_

He’s got his phone out in an instant but he shoves it back into his pocket almost as fast, well before he can click on a web page. One constant of Sherlock’s behaviour, even in the grips of acute boredom, is his inability to respect personal property and John has no intention whatsoever of leaving any inadvertent clues as to what he’s planning.

Instead he drains the remainder of his coffee in one gulp, shrugs his jacket on and, looking more cheerful than he has for days, heads towards Pall Mall in the hopes he’s not left it too late to pull this off.

oOo

‘Go and get dressed,’ John orders from the bottom of the sofa where Sherlock is sprawled, clad only in his pyjamas bottoms. Sherlock deigns to open his eyes and meet John’s stern look but only because the presence of John has been surprisingly scarce in the past few days. He’s found, since he returned, that he’s far more aware of John’s proximity than he ever has been – a development he is unexpectedly comfortable with - and the small bit of his mind that hasn’t been revving louder than an out-of-control Kawasaki for two weeks solid has discerned a rather secretive component to those absences and would quite like to know more.

‘Why should I?’ He drawls in response, flinging an arm above his head and turning his face against the back of the sofa in an attempt at nonchalance. ‘It’s barely nine in the morning and there is absolutely _nothing_ happening to warrant my being properly clothed.’

‘There isn’t?’ John’s tone is teasing enough to recapture Sherlock’s gaze, if only from the corner of his eye and, sure enough, he can see the edge of John’s mouth start to curl as he adds; ‘Well maybe, if you just did what I asked, something interesting might appear.’

‘You’re up to something,’ Sherlock says, pushing himself into a sitting position so he can stare at John suspiciously.

And there is a lot to be suspicious about. The tiny curl of John’s lips has become a wicked half smile, his eyes are bright with what Sherlock suspects is suppressed excitement and his stance, square and solid yet shot through with a thrumming tension, makes Sherlock think of night time chases through London.

‘What, exactly, have you done?’ He demands.

‘That would be telling.’ John allows the smile to inflate into a proper grin as he turns and begins to plump the cushion on his chair. ‘And I’m not saying another word until you’ve got some real clothes on.’

Sherlock hovers on the sofa for a moment, curiosity warring with an – admitted somewhat muted, given the possibility of an interesting distraction – dislike of being so obviously manipulated. However John’s determination to completely ignore him is obvious by the way he settles himself in his chair, picks up the paper, and studiously starts to read. So, momentarily defeated, Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh and slouches off to shower and change.

 

oOo

_God, John really does know me well_ , Sherlock thinks half an hour later. He’s already fully dressed bar socks and shoes, and he’s just pulled open his sock drawer to find - balanced carefully on the top so that it doesn’t disturb the index in any way – a plush ivory envelope on which John has, in his surprisingly neat handwriting, written:

 

 

_Written at the Diogenes_ , Sherlock thinks almost absently as he turns it over and fingers the un-gummed flap before beginning to retrieve its contents. He’s more than familiar with the weight and weft of the paper, having received missives on it nearly every day when he was at Eton, never mind the particular colour of the ink that screams Mycroft at a hundred paces. _So John’s got my brother involved in this little ... whatever it is_. The sheet of paper inside – of the same make as the envelope, naturally - is folded crisply in half and contains, again in John’s hand, a message:

 

 

Sherlock huffs out a half-laugh when the bit of his mind that is filled with John-related things reminds him he’s heard the riddle before, but a slight cough disrupts the data retrieval. John is leaning on the door frame, still smiling, but with a guardedness that tells Sherlock he’s unsure of Sherlock’s own reaction to being presented with what is, at heart, something incredibly juvenile.

Sherlock keeps his face blank for all of thirty seconds and then favours John with a huge grin, one that grows exponentially when he sees the answering flicker of happiness in John’s eyes.

‘I haven’t been on a treasure hunt since … far too long ago to think about. Well, not one that doesn’t have a criminal at the end, anyway. Although ...’ He tilts his head and opens his eyes a little wider. ‘I suppose it is a little presumptuous of me to assume that this will be a completely benign hunt.’

‘Stop fishing,’ John says, pushing away from the door and gesturing for Sherlock to get his socks on. ‘I’m not telling you what your prize is. That’s what the clues are for.’

‘No,’ Sherlock corrects as he hauls his socks on and then wriggles into his shoes. ‘The clues are just distractions. It’s the fact that you’ve planned this that’s going to tell me what I need to know.’

John folds his arms and gives Sherlock the no-nonsense look that Sherlock categorises –has done so almost from the day they met - as “stern but caring Captain”. Then, tucking his chin slightly, John says, ‘Go on then, deduce away.’

‘You didn’t make this up.’ Sherlock waves the piece of paper as he steps a little closer to John. ‘It’s not your style at all. Yet it does fit with you somehow, I …’

He lets his eyes flicker closed and his hands twitch for a moment and then, after an image of John sat by his bed holding a book pops up from his internal filing cabinet, he thrusts the paper toward John, demanding, ‘Read it aloud.’

John looks down at the paper, up at Sherlock – who still has his eyes closed - and then recites the riddle as requested. Sherlock’s eyes remain shut until the final syllable, when they fly open, glinting brightly in the sunshine that's chosen this moment to break through the grey clouds and venture in the window.

‘Eggs,’ he says smugly, already sweeping off to the kitchen, ‘and the riddle is from “The Hobbit”.’

John shakes his head ruefully and follows, smiling as he catches Sherlock’s muttered ‘hadn’t noticed it was Easter already’ as he yanks open the fridge and pulls out the three egg boxes inside. 

‘Really John,’ he says as he flips open the lids, scans them all and then swoops on one in the middle of the second box. ‘You might have at least tried to disguise it.’

‘You what?’ John splutters, unable to see just how Sherlock got the right one so quickly. ‘How do you disguise an egg?’

‘Dirt,’ Sherlock says succinctly, pointing at the specks, streaks and feathers on some of the other eggs. ‘Even if you discount the visible pinprick at the top,’ he elucidates as he eases out the folded paper carefully tucked inside the neatly cut hole in the bottom. ‘This one is too clean to not have been tampered with because you, _Doctor_ Watson, wouldn’t blow anything dirty.’

John blinks furiously and turns his head aside as he tries to drag his mind out of the gutter Sherlock’s observation has sent it tumbling into. Meanwhile Sherlock - either oblivious to, or choosing to ignore, the effect his words have had - smoothes the map out and traces one finger over the lines and few small drawings:

 

 

‘X marks the spot, John,’ he says, tapping the aforementioned symbol as he reaches for his coat. ‘I like it. Functional, efficient and, I suspect, generic enough to confuse anyone who isn’t intimately acquainted with the area in question ... which was rather the point of treasure maps, on the whole. And I especially like your attempt to mimic the aging of paper with tea,’ he continues whilst shoving John’s coat into John’s hands and chivvying him towards the stairs. ‘More specifically, I like the fact that since this was all produced in Mycroft’s office you probably got tea all over his desk in the process.’

‘He was very nice about it,’ John says, still reeling from the “blowing” comment. ‘Although it would have been a lot easier if he’d let his staff use teabags.’

It takes until they are almost at the Clarence Gate entrance to Regent’s Park for John to pull himself together, realise the speed at which they are walking and grab Sherlock’s arm.

‘There isn’t a fire you know, nor is the next clue going anywhere. Slow down for goodness sake.’

‘Am I ahead of schedule?’ Sherlock asks.

John instantly checks his watch and then groans when he sees the triumphant expression on Sherlock’s face as he halts, one hand dipped insouciantly in his suit trouser pocket.

‘Damn! Yes, alright, you win. There is a schedule for all this and,’ he adds quickly as Sherlock’s mouth opens, ‘yes, you’re ahead of it. Don’t look so pleased with yourself, I was intending to distract you after you’d found the map but … Oh!’

He snorts and looks up at Sherlock, a mix of chagrin and amusement playing across his features. ‘You sneaky sod! That comment was deliberately intended to fluster me. You’ve been playing me all the time, haven’t you?’

‘I did warn you,’ Sherlock says with barely suppressed glee, shooting a wink over his shoulder as he zooms off again, getting closer to the X with each extravagantly lengthy stride.

oOo

‘Hullo loves,’ Sue greets them as they reach the counter of the Boathouse Cafe. ‘Both having your usual?’

‘Yes, please,’ John says before Sherlock can get a word out, giving him a significant look and gesturing to area round the till. Frowning, Sherlock repeats the scan he’d given the area as they’d stood in the queue, cross that he’d let himself assume he was looking for something written on ivory paper rather than looking for anything out of the ordinary. Only there really isn’t anything out of place at all. Spinning on his heel to look over the terrace - in the opposite direction to where John indicated on the basis he’s most probably playing for time - he almost knocks over a small child who’s struggled out of its push chair and is babbling about “toklat”. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the expression on its Mother's face – no wonder there’s been such a decline in the intelligence of the general populace if mangling the English language to that extent is to be considered clever  – and is about to suggest to the woman that she corrects its pronunciation when John’s voice breaks into his thoughts.

‘Sherlock! Stop pretending you can’t hear me and get your wallet out. I need a fiver.’

‘Oh for ...’ Sherlock digs into his pocket and is about to just shove the wallet into John’s hands so he can go on with his search when he catches the gleam in John’s eyes and opens it himself.

‘Oh very clever,’ he says, almost without volition, as he unfolds the note and tucks his wallet away. ‘When did you do this?’

‘While you were in the shower,’ John says, winking at Sue and taking the drinks before nudging Sherlock out of the cafe and back onto the path, curling the hand Sherlock isn’t clutching the paper with round his take-out coffee as they go.

‘Did you miss a clue?’ Sherlock demands after reading the note for the fourth time, looking at John from under raised eyebrows. ‘Because I _don’t_ have a code.’

 

 

He expects John to at least look worried, if not take the note to check it, but John just smirks at him, quirking his head to one side as he says, ‘I think you’ll find you have.’

At which Sherlock internally curses the day he decided to teach John misdirection and sleight of hand because there, tucked into the cardboard hand protector round his coffee, is another piece of neatly folded ivory paper.

‘You do pay attention sometimes, then,’ he says before retrieving the note from the cup with his teeth and nudging John in the shoulder until he takes the coffee away. Unfolding it reveals the strangest seven lines of text he’s seen in a while and he sinks onto a nearby bench in order to study them properly.

 

 

John sits down next to him and waves the coffee under his nose until he takes it back and sips it, thinking hard.

‘I know it’s book code because the key is my copy of Treasure Island,’ he murmurs, giving John the note that had been in his wallet as the other man nods his agreement. ‘So these must be numbers but I don’t ... Why am I thinking of Mrs Hudson?’

‘I long ago gave up trying to understand how your mind works,’ John says with a soft smile, ‘so I’m afraid I can’t answer that. But ... don’t you recognise anything on there?’

‘Other than the name of that ridiculous show you have a strange obsession with? There’s definitely something about the phrases but ... Come on, John, let’s head back to Baker Street.’

Surprisingly, or at least John finds it surprising for approximately three minutes, Sherlock doesn’t head off at a hundred miles an hour and expect him to follow. Instead he seems content to walk normally, at John's side, as they meander between the joggers, families and dog walkers; all making the most of the weak sun that is as close to Spring weather as they’ve had this year.

‘This is good,’ Sherlock says very quietly as he takes another sip of his coffee. The way he then immediately launches into a much louder set of deductions about the people they are passing tells John he wasn’t just talking about the beverage and that knowledge sends a burst of heat through John’s chest and belly that has nothing whatsoever to do with the scant warmth from the sun.

oOo

‘Well don’t you look like the cat that’s got the cream,’ Mrs Hudson says when Sherlock positively bounds into the hallway, curls askew and cheeks glowing from the wind that had sprung up as they’d covered the final fifty yards to the flat.

‘I am nothing like a cat,’ Sherlock retorts as he takes the stairs two at a time and pretends not to the notice the approving look Mrs Hudson bestows on John. ‘But you can come up here. I need you to do something.’

‘I’m not your housekeeper, dear,’ she calls but she’s already making her way up the stairs behind Sherlock, much to John’s amusement.

‘I don’t want you to clean anything, John’s done all that,’ Sherlock states blithely, ‘I want you to tell me what Kelly’s Eye means.’ 

‘Am I allowed?’ She asks John as Sherlock gives a triumphant ‘Ah ha!’ grabs a pen from the coffee table and looks expectantly at the pair of them.

‘Yes, fine, go on,’ John says resignedly as he ushers her into his chair. ‘It _is_ a valid way of solving the clue ... I suppose.’

‘Of course it is. Straight from the horse’s mouth as it were. After all he did get you to help him code them in the first place, didn’t he Mrs Hudson?’

‘How do you know that?’ John demands but Mrs Hudson interrupts him.

‘It’s probably written all over my face, John love, so don’t worry. And it’s the number one, Sherlock dear,’ she says, watching him fondly as he scribbles it in the relevant place on the paper. ‘They’re all bingo calls.’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock’s staring at the note as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen in days. ‘So most of them rhyme with the number they portray or are somehow comedic.’

‘Something like that,’ John says, moving to stand behind Sherlock so he can read over his shoulder, watching with amazement as he fills most of them in correctly alone; only getting Mrs Hudson to clarify two of the more obscure ones.

‘Well done for utilising the multiple calls some numbers have,’ SHerlock says as he finishes, clapping John on the shoulder and then clambering onto his chair as he reaches for the top right-hand side of the bookshelf. ‘Removing any pattern in the visible code was very sensible as ... You’ve taken it out! Where? Where have you put my book?’

John meets the indignant look firmly, trying not to wince as Sherlock wobbles precariously on the very back of the chair.

‘Treasure hunt, Sherlock,’ he says, offering his hand to help Sherlock down. ‘Use the clues.’

Sherlock springs to the floor without so much glancing at the proffered assistance and gives the room a sweeping glance, muttering as he does so.

‘Not the book shelf end so a hidden nook … could be anywhere here. Only …’ He’s back in front of John in a second, clasping his shoulders and studying his face intently. ‘This is all about the last line, isn’t it? The _much-loved childhood friend_.’

John gives him a blandly innocent look that tells Sherlock more than an outright denial. ‘Mycroft took you to meet Mummy, didn’t he? While I was …’

Sherlock finds himself fumbling for words, eyes sliding away from John’s and down to stare at the carpet.

They’ve never really talked about the time they spent apart. In fact, once the initial flurry of confused euphoria (on John’s part) and the onset of exhaustion (on Sherlock’s) was over, and Sherlock was up and about again, they’d been content to pretend that it never happened at all. They had simply continued to move down unique groove of their entwined existence just as they’d always done.

Except that isn’t quite true, Sherlock acknowledges as John gently wraps his fingers round Sherlock’s shoulders so they are almost mirroring each other, and squeezes comfortingly.

He knows he’s changed.

He lets himself feel more, now. It’s not like you can really maintain a mask of sociopathy very effectively when you’ve jumped off a building for the people you lo … you care about. Plus all the other things he did in the name of protecting his own. And although to the majority of the world the Sherlock who returned is just as abrasive, cutting and and well, rude, as he ever was, there is a difference in how he treats Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft.

And John.

Especially John.

John who also isn’t quite the way Sherlock had remembered him.

This John doesn’t get angry as easily as he once did, nor does he nag about food and sleep so much; although that could be down to Sherlock making an effort to eat regular meals so that he doesn’t have to. He watches Sherlock more carefully, listens that bit harder and his instinctive understanding of Sherlock - that one thing that connected them so solidly in the first moments of their meeting - seems to have become even more precongiscient than it was before. And this John smiles at odd times too, at things that before would have made him make his “bit not good” face.

‘Are you going to take a degree in advance carpet study or are you going to look at me?’ John’s voice, as gentle as his hands, breaks through the rather disconcerting thoughts and Sherlock looks up at him immediately.

‘It’s a rug, John, not a carpet.’

‘It’s also irrelevant to you finding the book.’

‘You never try to make me talk about it,’ Sherlock blurts out before he can stop himself. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’ll tell me when you’re ready and that’s soon enough for me.’

The compassion in John’s voice is like balm to Sherlock’s soul and, as his muscles un-knot and he leans into what has now become a hug, he reflects that John probably already suspects. After all he was a soldier – still is really - and if anyone can understand, it’s him. 

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs into a wool covered shoulder.

They remain still for another few moments but then John draws back, giving Sherlock’s upper arms a brisk rub as he does.

‘You asked whether Mycroft had taken me to meet your Mother. The answer is yes, he did. She’s a very lovely lady and clearly didn’t deserve having two such spirited, inquisitive and devious children to try and look after.’

‘Mycroft was the devious one,’ Sherlock retorts, grateful for the return to somewhat safer ground. ‘I have never seen any reason to hide what I’m capable of.’

‘Yes, that _is_ something I’m aware of.’

John’s expression is wry, his tone so dry it would make the Sahara seem soggy and Sherlock can’t stifle the giggles welling up inside. He manages to turn the first one into a cough but then John gives his all encompassing smile that lights every millimetre of his face and they’re both gone; leaning on each other as they hiccough themselves calm again.

‘Back to it then?’ John asks as he wipes his eyes with back of his hand.

‘Yes, I … when did Mrs Hudson leave?’

‘When you started clambering on her furniture. Now, are you going to crack this clue or what?’

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the obvious challenge in John’s words and swiftly closes off all trains of thought bar those related to the clues. Mummy’s favourite topics of conversation have always seemed to hinge around embarrassing things he and Mycroft did as children and clearly John has been told of the obsession he had with all things Pirate related but surely she wouldn’t have told him …

Sherlock glances at John and notices at once that he’s angled himself so that the door to Sherlock’s room is not within his line of sight, despite the fact that it means he has to strain slightly to look at Sherlock’s face and his suspicions are confirmed.

‘I cannot believe she told you that,’ he hisses as he storms towards his room where, sure enough, his copy of Treasure Island is tucked under his pillow.

‘I think it’s rather sweet, not to mention so very you,’ John says, sounding so sincere Sherlock finds himself unable to halt the blush spreading across his cheeks. ‘I had trouble picturing you with a stuffed toy or a blanky but being inseperable from a book, to the point that you cuddled it in your sleep every night … that fits.’

‘I did _not_ cuddle it!’ Sherlock protests feebly, running a hand over the battered binding and grimly noting that everything about the state of it – a librarian would definitely describe it as more than slightly foxed – gave lie to his denial.

‘Of course not.’ John’s smiling that infuriating knowing smile again. ‘Sherlock Holmes does not cuddle. How silly of me to suggest otherwise.’

‘Shut up!’ He stalks out of the room, ignoring the further explosion of mirth behind him and by the time John’s got himself under control and has returned to Sherlock’s side he’s decoded the message.

 

 

‘I take it a text won’t suffice,’ Sherlock says quietly.

‘No,’ John answers, passing Sherlock his coat. ‘This is a treasure hunt. You have to fetch the clues.’ 

‘Well the whole purpose of all this is to get me out of the flat, isn’t it?’

‘Amongst other things,’ John says, already at the door. ‘Now where am I telling the cabbie we’re going?’

‘Barts, obviously.’

‘Just checking.’

‘Were you expecting me to say the Diogenes?’

John pauses on the top step, turning to look at him steadily for a moment and then, apparently happy with whatever he sees in Sherlock’s expression, flashes a grin as he shakes his head and is off again.

Sherlock stifles a sigh and follows, musing as he does that John has more guile than everyone, including Sherlock, ever gives him credit for.


	2. Chapter 2

‘I thought you’d be here earlier,’ Molly says brightly, carefully lowering a rather distressingly coloured liver back into the body she’s working on. ‘Did you have trouble getting his attention, John? Or did he get stuck on a clue?’

‘Neither,’ Sherlock replies before John can open his mouth, holding out his hand expectantly as Molly washes her hands. ‘We’ve just been subjected to the vagaries of London traffic, that’s all.’

‘I thought the bingo numbers were brilliant,’ Molly continues, apparently oblivious to the tapping foot and imperious gaze Sherlock’s favouring her with. ‘And I loved the map. I wouldn’t have known where it was just from those few pointers.’

A sharp kick to his ankle prevents Sherlock voicing the observation he was just about to make; instead he finds himself saying ‘Thank you’ very politely as Molly finally hands over the clue.

‘It’s ever such a good one, John,’ she says earnestly. ‘Like a real crossword clue. And it really made Greg laugh.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Sherlock says, shaking his head at the note in his hand. ‘Because this really is appalling. How long did it take you to come up with this mangled travesty of the English language?’

 

 

‘Hey!’ John gives him a hurt look. ‘I’m your blogger, not a professional quiz master. I thought it was rather good.’

‘It’s brilliant,’ Molly says staunchly before turning to glower at Sherlock. ‘ _And_ it’s a lovely thing to have taken the time to organise. So you, Sherlock Holmes, can stop being such an ungrateful wretch.’

Sherlock swallows despite himself; this more confident Molly can still take him by surprise and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing disapproval on her face.

 ‘Don’t mind him, Molly,’ John says, patting her on the arm whilst smiling gratefully. He lowers his voice conspiratorially to add, ‘He’s just miffed because he’s found out I know what he used to take to bed with him when he was little.’

‘Really?’

There’s a gleam in Molly’s eye that Sherlock doesn’t like one little bit and he’s grabbed John’s arm, pivoted him in a half circle and practically dragged him out of the door before either he or Molly can say anything else.

‘Yes, well, we’d best be off,’ he calls over his shoulder, ignoring Molly’s squeak of disapproval. ‘Time and trains wait for no man.’

oOo

‘I’m impressed,’ Sherlock says, tugging John out of the stream of humanity flowing toward the escalator heading up to the exit of Kings Cross St Pancras tube station and gesturing to two unobtrusive men at the top. ‘I’ve never known Mycroft willingly enter a tube station in his life.’

‘I’m not so sure he has.’ John takes Sherlock’s arm and heads for the escalator again. ‘He did seem a little put out at the way I’d phrased the clue to lead you here.’

‘If his security detail is here then he is here. And why would the clue … Ah yes, he’s never quite forgiven me for the Queen comment, has he?’

‘No, nor me for laughing quite so hard.’

‘You were in Buckingham Palace behaving like school children. Was I supposed to applaud?’ Mycroft is suddenly walking beside them as they step away from the escalator, disapproval radiating from every line of his body as he hands over another piece of paper. ‘For you, Sherlock ... and may I say that you do not even remotely deserve this sort of reward for indulging in such self-destructive and anti-social behaviour.’

‘I’m aware the corgis relieved themselves on your shoes again today, Mycroft,’ Sherlock says as he pockets the clue without looking at it. ‘But there’s no need to take out your displeasure on me. And besides, if you really did believe what you’ve just said, you wouldn’t have helped John in the first place.’

Mycroft acknowledges the truth of the statement with an imperious sniff and then, with a nod to John, disappears as swiftly as he came.

‘He gets more like George Smiley by the day,’ John says, sounding slightly impressed.

‘No, not Smiley,’ Sherlock demurs as they make their way through the barriers. ‘I actually liked Smiley. Alleline would be a better comparison.’

‘You like your brother, too, really,’ John says, trying not to feel smug that Sherlock's actually started retaining the movies they've watched together.

‘I ... I don’t find him as completely objectionable as I once did.’

John barks out a laugh and Sherlock grins back at him, comes to a halt by the wall between two of the exits from the tube station and, finally, looks at the clue.

 

 

‘Give me a pen, John,’ he orders after a few seconds of study.

‘What makes you so sure I’ve got one?’

‘You always carry at least two bic biros with you at all times,’ Sherlock says, wiggling his fingers impatiently under John’s nose. ‘Although I’ve never been able to definitively determine whether you do so because you like to be prepared to perform a emergency tracheotomy at the drop of a hat and still have a spare, or whether you think, as my blogger, that you should always have the ability to record what’s going on at any given time.’

‘D’you know I haven’t the foggiest?’ John says, frowning as he obediently provides the pen. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘Well, when you’ve established what’s going on in your subconscious you can let me know …’ Sherlock says absently as he scrawls on the paper using his other hand for support, ‘… but right now we’re going to the Eurostar terminal in St Pancras.’

John stares at him with a slack-jawed look of disbelief. The look dislodges a childhood memory Sherlock thought he'd long since deleted and he's unable to hold back the comment just begging to be vocalised.

‘Close your mouth, John, we are not codfish.’

John’s eyes go almost as wide as his mouth, his expression going from surprised to utterly befuddled in an instant. Then, having shaken his head so vigorously Sherlock was reminded of a dog after a rain shower, he just gestures for Sherlock to proceed him to the correct exit.

‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised I solved it so fast,’ Sherlock says as they climb the stairs, ignoring John’s mutterings about the value of Mary Poppins versus the solar system. 'You used a basic substitution cypher. Surely you realised it wouldn't take me long to make the connections.'

'There's a difference between not long and fifty seconds flat,' John retorts, taking the paper out of Sherlock fingers. 'And it wasn't as if I'd just written the destination in code.'

 

 

'True.' Sherlock conceeds as they weave their way through the press of people in the western side of St Pancras, all of whom are apparently intent of escaping London for the Easter weekend. 'But it wasn't exactly difficult.'

'I don't think there's ever anything you find difficult,' John muttered.

'You know that's not true,' Sherlock says softly, coming to a halt about ten paces away from the entrance to The Arcade and the international platforms, resting a hand on John's shoulder.

He wants to say more, although he's not sure either how to put these feelings into words or why it should be so important that he do so. He just knows that it is. That he needs to know John understands.

John looks at him steadily and nods, a smile in his eyes if not on his lips.

'I wasn't talking about _that_ ,' is what John says but the warmth in his voice is enough.

'I just wanted to be sure.' Sherlock drops his hand and then looks between the check-in desk and John. 'Is Lestrade late or have I missed something?'

'Nice guess but no, Greg isn't going to suddenly appear clutching another clue.'

'Then what, precisely, are we waiting for?'

'Nothing,' John says as he starts toward the desk, hand rummaging in the inner pocket of his coat as he goes. 'I've got everything we need right here.'

Sherlock forces his face to remain blank as John hands over tickets and passports, chatting cheerfully to the Eurostar staff before ushering Sherlock into the waiting area.

'We've got well over half an hour until boarding,' John says as they claim a couple of seats at the end of a row. 'Do you want a drink while we wait?'

'Not unless you're getting yourself one,' Sherlock answers absently.

'I'll be five minutes, then,' John says, already moving and Sherlock waves a hand in vague acknowledgement, already too deep in thought to do much more.

He's still cogitating, re-running the past three hours in a desperate search for missed pointers, when a warm take-out cup is pressed into his hands and an equally warm body fills the space next to him.

'The wind'll change and you'll stay like that,' John says, nudging his arm. 'My intentions with this were not to make you frown so hard climbers could use the furrows in your forehead as practice crags.'

'Is that what passes for an acceptable simile in your head?' Sherlock retorts, finally accepting that John had managed to successfully keep from him that the treasure hunt was leading them to his second favourite city. 'If so, I fear for the readership of your blog.'

'Stop being grumpy and drink your tea.' John sits back, leaning slightly so that they're pressed together from knee to shoulder. 'I went to quite a lot of trouble to make sure you didn't get wind of this little trip so don't get all huffy because I succeeded.'

Sherlock chooses not to acknowledge that John's completely right about why he's in a snit, instead casting an eye over the other passengers waiting for the 12:35 to Paris and then, because he's starting not to trust his own deductions when it comes to John's planning abilities, says, 'This isn't my prize, is it?' Although it's more a statement than a question.

'Correct,' John answers, giving the still untouched tea a meaningful look. 'But you're not getting the next clue until you're actually on the train.'

'You could just give it to me now.'

'No, I really couldn't.'

'Why not? You can't still be upset that I solved the last one so quickly.'

'It's got nothing to to with that,' John says, shifting forward and fixing Sherlock with a mildly disapproving look.

'Is this about your schedule again?' Sherlock says before John can tell him off.

'No, it's ...' John sighs and runs his free hand over his eyes and down his face. 'D'you know sometimes I think a toddler would be easier to keep entertained. Anyway, it's not that I don't want you to have the clue, it's that _I_ don't have it to give to you. I didn't want to risk you finding it before you were supposed to so I arranged for it to be put on your seat on the train.'

'I see,' Sherlock says, squirrelling away the toddler comment for further consideration at a time when he isn't quite so conscious of how much effort John’s expending just to make him happy, and takes a sip of his tea. 'Well, in that case you can keep me "entertained", as you so charmingly put it, by telling me what other embarrassing things Mummy saw fit you share with you. I'd like to know what I've got to be prepared to have revealed about me next time I make an inappropriate comment in public.'

John sits forward, a dreamy expression on his face that Sherlock’s only ever seen when John’s been talking about the summers he spent with his grandparents by the slopes of Ben Nevis, and proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes giving Sherlock a potted history of his own childhood.

'That isn't quite how I remember it all,' Sherlock says when John is interrupted by the tannoy announcement telling all First Class passengers that they can commence embarkation.

'Mycroft assures me it's all true,’ John says as they make their way toward the platform.

'I'd have thought that would have made you more inclined to disbelieve it.'

‘I have to say I am a little dubious about the accuracy of the exploding store cupboard story.'

'Oh, that one was entirely correct.' Sherlock can't help smirking at that particular memory. 'It's amazing what you can achieve with some flour and a bit of ingenuity.'

'You were four and a half!'

'I was _bored_.'

John gives a snort of laughter as he preceeds Sherlock into an otherwise empty carriage, slides into a seat in the middle and gestures to the glass bottle on the seat opposite. 'And you wonder why I feel the need to keep you entertained!’

oOo

‘I now understand why Mycroft told me I’d prefer it if his assistant booked the tickets,’ John says, giving his glass of champagne an appreciative look as he takes another forkful of the exquisite chicken salad. ‘I wouldn’t have thought to arrange all this.’

‘If nothing else, my brother does know how to travel in style,’ Sherlock agrees.

His own plate, half cleared, has already been pushed to one side and the contents of the rather delightful victorian glass bottle are sitting in front of him:

 

 

‘Are you going to tell me what it means, then?’ John asks, nodding toward the reprinted photograph that is still curling at the edges from where it was rolled up.

‘I’d love to,’ Sherlock says sharply, ‘if I were able.’

John’s mouth twitches and he turns his head slightly toward the window, which would have been a much more effective cover for his amusement if they weren’t still inside the tunnel.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Sherlock says somewhat sullenly, ‘I thought you might enjoy my currently lack of success far more than is good for you.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Merely an observation,’ Sherlock says as he holds the picture out at arms length and then addresses it directly. 'Well, Monsieur Proust, what are you supposed to be telling me? Other than that John actually enlisted Mycroft's help with this clue, that is.'

John stays silent, stretching luxuriously and then settling himself comfortably into the corner. He has absolutely no intention of giving Sherlock any help whatsoever with this clue at all; there's still another hour and three quarters to go before they arrive in Paris and he doesn’t want to have to find anything else for Sherlock to occupy himself with in that time.

Sherlock lowers the picture and glares at John.

‘It’s like that is it? Well I will get this,’ he mutters, fingers drumming on the table. ‘With or without your input. Just you wait.’

‘Of course you will,’ John says easily, unfolding the paper he’d bought at the terminal and disappearing behind it. ‘Feel free to use me as a skull replacement. I’m not going to be talking.’

Sherlock merely growls in response and then reorients himself on the seats so he can lie back, steeple his hands under his chin and close his eyes.

Silence reigns in the compartment for the remainder of the journey, neither of them saying another word until they’re barely fifteen minutes away from arriving at the Gare du Nord. At which point Sherlock’s face lights up in understanding and he does a rather inelegant wriggle to get himself sitting upright again.

‘Very clever,’ he exclaims loudly, jolting John from an impromptu snooze. ‘This one really was all Mycroft, wasn’t it?’

John doesn’t answer the question, just scrubs at his face with his hands for a moment and then says, in a voice thick with sleep, ‘Tell me what you think the answer is.’

‘Half forgotten memories sparked by french cakes,’ Sherlock says triumphantly. ‘You want me to visit Hediard in the Place de la Madeleine.’

‘I do indeed.’ John rolls his shoulders and shakes the sleep from his frame. ‘How’d you work it out?’

‘This whole hunt has been based round my childhood memories. You’re taking me back to Paris at Easter and you’ve used the things you learnt about my childhood to create some of the clues. Proust’s most recognised work is “Rembrance of Things Past” and one of the most quoted sections of it is the episode of the madeleine. Once I’d remembered that, everything just slotted into place. The next clue is waiting for me in the Hediard’s window.’

John smiles at him. ‘Brilliant, Sherlock, as always. Now get your coat on, we’ve arrived.’

oOo

‘Come on, John!’ Sherlock calls, darting out of the Metro station situated on the North East corner of the Place de la Madeleine and charging into the flow of, admittedly quite slow moving, traffic that seperates him from the North West corner where the store stands. He’s not sure whether it’s the thrill of being made to think so hard by what should have something so simple or if it’s just the joy of being out and about again after two weeks of desperate boredom but he can’t help but feel the buzz of the chase in his veins, this close to the next clue.

Only when he gets to the windows he can’t see anything clue-like at all, just a sophisticated backdrop of a stylised treasure map in whites, blues and greens which pales into insignificance when compared to what it is a backdrop for:

 

 

Sherlock knows he’s staring; he can’t help it. Because he was wrong again. There really is no clue in this window. John’s spent goodness knows how much money bringing him 213 miles to see a chocolate egg. The most marvellous chocolate egg he’s ever seen in his life, granted, but still an egg.

It’s such a frivolous thing to do.

 _Wonderful though_ , he thinks, fighting the urge to press his hands and nose to the glass, _truly wonderful_. _I’m not sure Mummy would have been able to drag me away if they’d made ones like this when I was little._

Behind him he can hear John apologising, in very fractured French, to someone who might just have had to break a little more sharply than they’d have liked thanks to Sherlock’s rather laisse faire method of crossing the road. He doesn’t bother to turn round; John is perfectly capable of soothing ruffled feathers in any language. Sure enough John’s at his side a few seconds later.

‘Do you like it?’ John asks, a hint of worry at the edges of his voice.

Sherlock nods vigorously, throat suddenly too tight to talk.

‘Good, that’s good.’

John steps back and gives a wave toward the interior of the shop and then, carrying a large box and smiling the smile of the consummate Parisian shopkeeper, a petite french woman practically materialises between them. She hands the box to Sherlock saying,

‘Wiz Monsieur Watson’s compliments, Monsieur ’Olmes, and weeshing you a very ‘appy Easter.’

Sherlock takes the box with a muttered “Merci beaucoup” and then looks at John, mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of astonishment as his eyes flit between the enormous egg in the window and the huge box in his hands.

John realises, after a few minutes, that this - of all things - has rendered Sherlock speechless and decides a little bit of explanation is necessary.

‘Like you said on the train, your Mother _had_ told me that each year she brought you and Mycroft to Paris for Easter. When I mentioned it to Mycroft he told me you always asked to come here and see their Easter window display. So I googled this place, just to see what could have captivated you and when I saw what this year’s design was, I couldn’t help myself. It just seemed so ... so right for you. So I bought one.’

Sherlock shakes his head, still staring at John as though he’s never seen him before. Then, with just the slightest hint of a tremble in his voice, he says,

‘John Watson, you never cease to amaze me. No-one has ever ... all this trouble just for ... Father never allowed me to ... I really don’t know what to say ...’

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ John replies and he means it. The look in Sherlock’s eyes is enough. ‘You just need to come with me.’

He inclines his head toward a black car idling in the nearest side street and starts walking. ‘Mycroft’s had your family’s flat prepared for the weekend and I sent our luggage ahead. We can get the driver to drop your “treasure” off after he’s dropped us ... well, that’s up to you. You did say if we ever came to Paris on a case you’d show me round.’

‘The Pantheon first, I think,’ Sherlock says after a minute. He still looks a little shell-shocked as he follows John into the car but his eyes are full of enthusiasm. ‘They currently have a replica of Foucault’s pendulum set up there and it might prompt you into finishing that book you’ve been toying with for months. Then we’ll walk down to the Ile St Louis – there’s an ice cream shop I think you might like - and that will leave us just enough time to walk past where the Bastille was situated before we go back and change for dinner. We’ll go to the Bouillon Racine, I think. Henri will find us a table and they make _the_ most exquisite lobster bisque ...’

John settles back into the plush upholstery and smiles as the car moves off and Sherlock, still clutching his egg, begins giving him a potted history of some of the more interesting crimes that Paris has played host to over the centuries.

 _What a difference a year makes_ , he thinks to himself as Sherlock makes a truly appalling joke about Mycroft and Marie-Antoinette and they both dissolve into breathy giggles, _this is definitely going to be a very Happy Easter_.

**Author's Note:**

> Note the first: In my head this sort of, very loosely, follows “Miracle on Baker Street” and thus is sort of established Johnlock with a side of “still finding their way through the nuances of a new relationship”. However I hope I’ve managed to write it so that it reflects their on-screen relationship and is only slash if you put the correct goggles on!
> 
> Note the second: I wrote and made all the clues myself, having far more fun than I thought possible in the process (if you happen to have the same copy of Treasure Island as I do then the book code will work), and the handwriting is mine. Like John I write left-handed and shoot right-handed so I decided there was a chance our penmanship might be at least passingly similar.  
> And yes, the bits that are supposed to be Sherlock were also written by me, with my right hand in an attempt at verisimilitude. I’m not quite sure it worked.
> 
> Note the third: The Enormous Egg of Amazingness (as I’ve dubbed it) was, as stated in the fic, living in the window of Hediard’s in Place de la Madeleine in Paris over Easter 2013. I saw it when I was there in Feb 13 and it instantly caused this plot bunny to spring into existance. The general outline of the fic and some of the dialogue then being written in various Parisian cafés.  
> If you’re wondering about logistics, the egg is big enough to be the only thing in a pretty large window (height wise I think it’s slightly longer than the distance between my elbow and the tips of my fingers so at least 20 inches tall), weighs 5 kg and costs 450 euros (that equates to about £390 or $585 ) The smallest version of it was 42 euros (£36/$55). Needless to say I didn’t buy one, despite wanting to so very, very badly. 
> 
> Note the fourth: If you’re ever in Paris do go and visit the Pantheon. Not only do they have a working replica of Foucault’s pendulum, it is also one of the most stunningly beautiful buildings I’ve had the pleasure to experience.
> 
> Note the fifth: The ice cream shop on the Ile St Louis is called Berthillon and the Chocolat Noir flavour is to die for!


End file.
